Ran across this in going through files, Drawing from the late 60s, now in the collection of Art Smith, my former aircraft commander and comrade.
April 22 here in Portage and it is snowing. Not with any serious intentions. More a reminder of which season is most miserable for and controlling of human life and behavior. We’ll soon head north across the bridge and I have been thinking about what the draw is for this annual progress. Fifteen years ago in The Snowfly, I wrote of the north. The character Bowie Rhodes is thinking as he was driving. “North, I knew deep down, was where I belonged, north being as much a philosophy as a direction or destination. You knew when you were there, or you didn’t. Those who couldn’t feel it and embrace it generally only tried it once. You fit or you didn’t. The basic law of nature was the law of the unexpected. In the woods, or on a fast river, you were attuned to this; at home, in a job, in relationships, you were not, yet nature pertained in all settings to all species in one way or another. North was the home of the unexpected. North spawned chilled chaos, yet it warmed my heart.”
This isn’t to say I don’t like the South. I do. I lived in North Carolina, Virginia, Texas, and Oklahoma as a kid growing up and I liked all of them, though I was too young to really remember N.C.
What really sticks to me is the allure of small towns hacked out of the woods.In re-reading Wm Least-Heat Moon’s wonderful classic Prairyerth I a ran across a passage that expresses my sense of small towns quite succinctly in a small-town slow rolling way. Heat (1939-) is a nom de plume (his “pen name”). The writer’s more “Erthly handle” is William Lewis Trogdon. He was in a café in Chase County Kansas, and asked the owner whether the lack of privacy wasn’t the worst thing about a small town and she replied, “And also the best. I love going to the post office in the morning and knowing everybody. The only time we honk a car horn is with a wave. It’s touching when someone asks about my son or my dad’s health. We can’t afford not to care about other people in a place this small. Our survival, in a way, depends on minimizing privacy because the lack of it draws us into each others’ lives, and that’s a major resource in a little town where there aren’t a thousand entertainments. There’s an elderly man who lost his little granddaughter to a drunk, hit-and-run driver, a few months ago. Every time the old gentleman comes into the Emma Chase (the name of the café), he retells the story and every time people listen. What’s that worth to a person? Or to a community. A café like this serves to bond us.” In L’Anse eight miles downhill and north of us, the two eateries like this are the Hilltop and The Nite Owl, which is more of a breakfast place. I’ve lived in or around small towns much of my life and loved them all. Rhinecliff, Rudyard, Deer Park, Alberta. The scenery may vary but the toughness and straightforwardness of the people doesn’t vary much at all. Moon said in his book in 1991 that 70 percent of Americans lived on 2 percent of the land.” I’m guessing that front number is even higher now as cities puff out like turf-sucking adders and small towns board up and disappear under the regional assaults of Walmart and other commercial chain dragons bent on killing all opposition as quickly and heartlessly as possible.
Now it’s true that the small-town “mindset can pertain to city segments or neighborhoods of larger communities but those places are more often surrounded by more such locations and thousands upon thousands of people, not to mention tens of thousands of passing-throughs, and almost none such places are surrounded by forests or neighbored-up with wild animals the way the U.P. is.
Not exactly rocket-science thinking, but then my mind doesn’t drift in that direction very often.
Every time we cross the bridge into the U.P we can feel the different, cleaner air filtering through us, and within the first week or so we know we’ll have our first encounters with the local wolf packs ( we live between two of them), a wandering bear, or moose on the loose. We’ll settle into our routine, me up at 0400 and writing, and afternoons filled with marauding the local hills and streams on foot. Probably the water levels will have most creeks and rivers unfishable for an old man wading until later in May, but we can wait and if I can’t, I can always cross over to the pond and pretend I know what I’m doing, to sit on the bank on a cool day warmed by memories of life’s special moments.
It’s good to have things to look forward to, including a place to sit in the sun and remember the old passions that burned so bright.
Sadly, we anticipate departure in a new old vehicle, yet unnamed and unpossessed. You see, the 15-year-old Green Streamer is no more. After more than 220,000 miles I pulled all the flies out of the ceiling yesterday afternoon, and stripped out all the emergency cargo for placement in the replacement, so to speak.
I will try to keep a more regular blog this summer but there can be no promises. Fishing and other writings will take precedence, and drawing with my colored pencils. I am feeling particularly separated from painting and art at the moment and feeling a powerful urge to get back to addressing canvases with bold colors and interesting shapes. We shall see.
I be of that tribe old enough to remember ink jars
Sunk in school desks, the little circle surfaces shiny- black as oil
Surely as valuable, our teacher wary of our replenishing the black blood
On our own, telling us such work needed surer hands, and steady nerves
Something he called experience as if it were beyond the reach of normal.
Or average, we made no such distinctions back then.
We wrote all one semester with scratchy quills of soft wood shafts,
Razored spear-points we thrust into wells to nab words
We strung together in stringers called sentences
Holding them aloft proudly, our papers crinkling papery sounds,
But chiming in my mind like a metal stringer clanking
Take-weight leaving the scent of natural and new to the light.
And now I remember ink wells alone, not the names
Of the faceless souls who kept them wet
So we might fish, and I sense deep debt here,
Unpaid in eyeshade-think, yet every day
I scribble I feel the debt becoming less.
Some find life in their first bike, or ball-glove.
Mine was ink and pen and no limits on where I steered
A lifelong obsession, a gift few receive in the lottery.
[Portage, April 20, 2015]
We are packing for the “progress” north and, as usual, my mind wants to go to something other than scutdom and so I procrastinate physically and in my mind. Out studio looks out on our backyard, which has been the scene of thousands of non-regulation, unregulated baseball games, all operating on the honor system but requiring the services of imaginary “ghosties,” imaginary creatures who foster more spurious arguments and petty spats than Judge Judy’s court. How can something as pragmatic as a ghostie foster such trouble?
This led me to thinking about how every time I go somewhere for a public reading or to sign books, I seem to have one, sometimes two people, who approach me to announce either that they have a story they are certain I should write, or that they have a story they would like to tell, but just don’t have the time to write it down. My usual approach with this is to nod and turn on my cop talk with “Okay,” or “I see.”
And change subjects. I understand the battle they refer to, even if they don’t know it is a battle. And overcoming a time deficit is the least of the hurdles they face.
I am sure that every life is a story and that within each of those master stories are multiple other stories and in some folks these stories are scratching at the screen like pets to be loosed to the outside world. But the fact that such things want out, doesn’t mean they should be loosed, verbally or on paper. And letting them out, transforming them from thoughts to words on paper is not the simple transaction if might seem.
The problem here is that a lot of people confuse fiction with autobiography, and seek to draw lines from point A to point B in a story to a line from Point A to Point B in the trajectory of the author’s life. This way of thinking fails to understand what the creative process is and this way sees every book as something an author has scribbled from his mind into sight and maybe changed some dates and times to save some characters (people, relatives, friends, etc) a bit of anguish or embarrassment.
It ain’t that way.
For 30 years I’ve done a little experiment with audiences, asking them to tell me which things in a work they think are fact and which are fiction. They almost never can separate fictions from facts, or what some call reality. I still marvel at this almost whole inability to sort reality from fiction and it makes me think that either I’m much of the time writing convincingly, or that people are just too self-focused to sort anything out for themselves.
There’s a reason for this. Virginia Woolf in her essay, “Montaigne” (In her 1925 edition of The Common Reader) has a fine run at explanations of these inner mental and emotional processes that fuel creativity. Her model for this is Montaigne, who pioneered the form we call essay, and lived in the time of Shakespeare, who no doubt knew the Frenchman’s work. The essay is different than other forms in that it was back then, the rare work that sought to expose the inner self. Shakespeare’s later plays show a distinct lean into this way for his characters and once has to wonder did Montaigne make him stop and think, and then push in a new inner direction. I don’t know the answer, but the question is intriguing.
She begins with an anecdote of a king drawing his own portrait with a crayon and Montaigne wonders “Why is it not, in like manner, lawful for everyone to draw himself with a pen, as he did with a crayon?” Woolf offers this explanation. “Offhanded one might reply, ‘Not only is it lawful, but nothing could be easier. Other people may evade us, but our own features are almost too familiar. Let us begin. And then, when we attempt the task, the pen falls from our fingers; it is a matter of profound, mysterious, and overwhelming difficulty.”
Which is exactly my point. With all the stories boiling around inside us it would seem self-evident that scratching them down, even in the roughest public form, would be a fairly easy undertaking, but it’s not.
Woolf uses the Frenchman to sketch her own position. “There is, in the first place, the difficulty of expression. We all indulge in the strange, pleasant process called thinking, but when we think, but when it comes to saying, even to someone opposite, what we think, then how little we are able to convey! The phantom is through the mind and out of the window before it can lay salt on its tail, or slowly sinking and returning to the profound darkness which it has lit up momentarily with a wandering light. Face, voice, and accent eke out our words and impress their feebleness and character in speech. But the pen is a rigid instrument; it can say very little; it has all kinds of habits and ceremonies of its own. It is dictatorial too: it is always making ordinary men into prophets, and changing the natural stumbling trip of human speech into the solemn and stately march of pens.
In some ways I think this describes both the inability of most folks to write anything of length – which requires rigid mental and physical discipline, but opens the door for these “moments of wandering light” to get captured long enough for FACEBOOKers to pass along the tortured, honest or insidious words and pictures of others. No real creativity here, just every person as a small microphone in the cacophony that is the barnyard we call life. Groups post slogans and stuff and others pass them on, with very little inner self placed for public inspection and that which is, often very rough and disorganized and emotional surges that rip around inside us, but have no place being made visible for others. They are not thought. They are other, lesser things, best kept in darkness.
Woolf goes on. “For beyond the difficulty of communicating oneself there is the supreme difficulty of being oneself. This soul, or life within us, by no means agrees with the life outside us. If one has the courage to ask her what she thinks, she is always saying the very opposite to what other people say. Other people, for instance, long ago made up their minds that old invalidish gentlemen ought to stay at home and edify the rest of us by the spectacle of their connubial fidelity.”
Montaigne’s soul said of this notion that it is old age when one ought to travel, and marriage, which is very seldom founded on love, is apt to become, towards the end of life, a formal tie better broken up.
Montaigne’s soul is a female spirit, I can’t explain his thinking down this line, but it sings nicely. “But watch her (the soul) as she broods over the fire in the inner room of that tower, which, though detached from the main building, has so wide a view over the estate. Really she is the strangest creature in the world, far from heroic, variable as a weathercock, ‘bashful, insolent; chaste, lustful; prating, silent; laborious, delicate; ingenious, heavy; melancholic, pleasant; lying, true; knowing, ignorant; liberal, covetous, and prodigal—in short, so complex, so indefinite, corresponding so little to the version which does duty for her in public, that a man might spend his life merely in trying to run her to earth. The pleasure of pursuit more than rewards one for any damage, that it may inflict upon one’s worldly prospects. The man who is aware of himself is henceforward independent; and he is never bored, and life is only too short, and is steeped through and through with a profound yet temperate happiness. He alone lives, while other people, slaves of ceremony, let life slip by them in a kind of dream. Once conform, once do what other people want you to do because they do it, and a lethargy steals over all the finer nerves and faculties of the soul. She becomes outer show and inward emptiness: dull, callous, and indifferent.”
Here in one well-muscled paragraph captures the two paths of life: what others demand and expect, or your own road.
I think when people approach me about writing their own books they are trying to tell me that the stuff inside them can’t find a way out and that perhaps I would give voice to. But here again, they are mistaking fiction for dictation of inner reality. But it is not that. If there is an inner world and an outer world we exist in, there becomes yet another world, a fictive world, when one of us manages to pull it together to be read and contemplated. It is a product of the other two worlds, but cannot exist until rendered into a form that others can see and explore. It is a creation born of the inside boil in our secret cauldrons, and put into life via scribbling ink on paper.
“Are you packing?” the boss yells from the kitchen. Yes, Dear. Over.
When I am traveling to examine potential book and scene sites (all over the world), I use a combination of photographs, drawings, and notes, both from my travels and from my historical research. Here is stuff from November 1990 in Belgium, pretty much in the area around Ypres (which British soldiers pronounced, “Wipers”). Gas was first deployed near here and a lot of bloody, bloody fighting took place for no gain. People tend to forget that both sides used poison gas against the enemy, and both sides, being avowed Christian nations prayed to the same god to see them victorious. As if she was even paying attention.) I intended to write a novel called Dufour’s Star— but this has been compressed to a short story for a future collection.I believe my training in journalism and experiences in editorial cartooning help prepare me for the sort of observations and record keeping routine I’ve adhered to since1965 when I left MSU for the USAF. Dufour could still be a novel– or a novella, but we shall see. Ran across this stuff in my work journals as we prepare to move north to the Western U.P.
The joys of writing. Ny mnemory goes back to the day I spent in NYC at Lyons Press meeting the publisher Nick Lyons and we briefly discussed The Snowfly and then spent the better part of the afternoon going through a passel of flies that had been sent to him. Many of them he passed to me and they rode home to Michigan in my briefcase. Publishing was face-to-face back in those old days, just fifteen years ago. Nowadays, everything is ee-lectreeonick. For example, I got electronic page proofs for the new edition (expanded by 50 pages) of COVERED WATERS this week with request that I return them by Monday, April 13 (7 days). First I could not get the Adobe activated to edit the PDF (stands for Pretty Damn Foolish). But I then did manage to get it working after a chat with Staci in Production, who sent me Procedura per gli sciocchi (Instructions for Fools). (Dear Bozo, first do A. If A works, then do B. If A does not work go back to start.) and after completing review and revision of a chapter, the computer announced it was shutting it down for unknown reasons and would “let me know if it again became available.” WTF. Meanwhile my longtime publisher Lyons/Globe-Pequot has been recently acquired by Rowman & Littlefield, and the IT folk there, it seems, presumably finagled the merged system, with the result being that the Rowman computers will not accept any email from me, including the one I needed to send to Production, who sent the pages to me for a look-see. Sitrep: I could get, but not give. This email problem has been on-gong for a couple of weeks. Okay then. I jury-rigged a couple of routes, first using FACEBOOK messaging to alert (whine to) my editor Keith Wallman re my problems. And today, having gotten up early, and muscled my way through pages, I sent the revised electronic proofs to my agent Phyllis Westberg at Harold Ober Inc, who in turn relayed said pages to Staci in Production. In the old days, the publisher would have sent me hard copy, which I would have reviewed and revised (with a pencil or pen), and then mailed overnight back to the publisher. What an improvement all this electronic stuff is over the old days. Wheeee. Color me AFK, Dudes. Have to send a note to my Phyllis for bailing me out. Over.
Declared Dear Popeye: “I loves ta greedily eats me spinach and ta sometimes breaks da rules.”
A smidge of April rain fell at first light to lightly massage the grasses and to happily bring forth new life. Nothing like making a point to aggressively split infinitives like some of our old-timey Yooper friends are wont to happily do: You’se to da cow t’row da hay over fence, eh?
An infinitive, we are told, is a two-word form of a verb, such as to read, to write, to illustrate, to screw.
An infinitive is split when one puts a word (Usually it’s an adverb) between the ”to” and the verb, as in: to eagerly read, or to hastily write, or colorfully illustrate, or frequently screw.
Many writers great and small tend to ignore this rule — as they often ignore all grammatical rules – because their main interest is to actively effect results in their readers’ minds and to happily satisfy readers of their prose.
Episodes of Star Trek provide a great example of the split infinitive form:” To boldly go where no one has gone before,” the split in being the adverb “boldly” tucked neatly betwixt to and go.
The rule of not splitting has been around only since around 1834, which ironically is only a year before the states of Ohio and Michigan went to making war over what we now call the Toledo strip and to quickly take this line of thought into ether I should point out that Toledo in the 1970s where the shady operators of the Blades in the IHL (The Eye) would cheaply sell beer on Hate-the-Kalamazoo Wings Nights. Adding to the insult, the proprietors of the dinky-rink in Toledo had seats unattached to the floors, which made it easy to conveniently pick one up and to easily loft it at the players down on the ice.
Over the forerunners of these sadsack jamokes we fought a war? Good that we lost and got the Indian Territories in trade — that area across the straits of Mackinac now known as the Upper Peninsula, which in my mind we can conveniently think of as kind of geographical split infinitive, the to (to being either a prepositional or subordinating conjunction, I confess to not being certain – or to even caring) which most accurately defines it). And the main verb is the Lower Peninsula.
Oddly enough, the attitude known to widely prevail below the bridge back in the day was that Michigan was to be robustly screwed by receiving the wilderness in return for the potentially more lucrative Toledo Strip – where eventually there would be strippers other than local residents. But times and attitudes change. The UP ended up having a whole heap of natural resources for various business interests to rape wantonly, now it’s Yoopers who feel the pain of the trade and if asked to openly express their feelings are likely to candidly tell you “Dose below-britch pipples should send dere damn money up here, an’ to demseffs keep down below, eh?
To bluntly ask Yoopers to try tell you the feelings they harbor is to maybe risk some roundhouse punches coming back to you.
U.P. as a geographic split infinitive with the Straits doing the splitting. I like this concept, shall have to enthusiastically fiddle with it in the future to surely come. As a friend of mine once said, “It feels SO good to REALLY be bad,” and that certainly applies to bend or wantonly ignore our rules in any way we feel will effectively improve a piece of writing.
I woke up this morning thinking about work, not the kind I did for 30 years in the corporate world, but the kind of work I do now. In those days it was almost impossible to find time to think during the work day, which pushed such activity primarily to the night in off-work hours. During the day there were incessant phone calls and a steady parade of people dropping by, some just to jaw, most for substantive reasons. Now I work both day and night in almost complete solitude and this is so much more conducive to thought and a life in the mind than the former. The corporate world might find itself far more productive if It went to four-day work-weeks, not for production or for sales folks, but for the various thought-disciplines that propel the ship’s perennial money-hunt.
Lonnie skipped down to her Mother’s place overnight, leaving Shaksper and me to our own devices, and we managed quite well. The dog slept on his bed, near mine, and didn’t disturb me until after 6, even though he knows I’m usually up between 4-5. He took his bolus with pills without incident this morning and is now stretched out in the morning air, sucking in the cool, and hoping (do dogs pray?) a rabbit makes the mistake of crossing his ground. It’s good for a border collie to have a job.
My last reading for the first quarter is A Writer’s Diary by Virginia Woolf.
To be frank, I’ve never read any Virginia Woolf and only know her because of Edward Albee’s 1962 play, Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? Which, of course, has, near as I can tell, nothing (if anything) to do with the author. So it is with great pleasure that I have discovered her diary, which she kept sporadically and which deals with her inner writing life and various social events, giving a nice window on England and herself from the second decade of the Twentieth Century into 1941. What impresses me is her simple, descriptive vocabulary mixed with a sort of introspective creative peek at the things around her and the currents of thought charging through her brain, wonderful phrases like, “taking a delicious draught of silence.” Or, “he had blue eyes like hard marbles. Or, “He mumbles and mutters like an old man sucking pebbles.”
I’m certain now that after we move the caravan up to our Summer digs I’ll find some Woolf novels and see if her fiction matches the writing and thinking in her diaries. I expect to not be disappointed.
Thus, here we are, Shaksper and me, watching the light grow over the garden. It is April Fools Day, which in France is called Poisson d’Avril (April Fish) and it Italy, where I once lived for some years, Pesce d’Aprile, (ditto April Fish or something close.) Why fish? Who knows, but the prank of the day is to tape pictures of fish on the back of unsuspecting classmates and wait for them to find it and act appropriately put out. If one were to affix a paper trout to my back, I’d serious consider leaving it there in perpetuity. Think of all the trees this might save for future April Fish days. The last Saturday in April. That’s how we in Michigan describe the trout opener, which has been this way for as long as I can remember. We are now sliding out the backside of April and the opener begins to loom. We will be in the UP by then, most streams unwadable until June and the weather no doubt will be awful for the opener, which is almost always is, with few exceptions, global clotting or not.
Yesterday I spent most of the afternoon fussing with a letter for our trust, one telling the kids that I want to be cremated ASAP and my ashes dumped at a favorite spot in a particular river. Lonnie and I would like eventually for there to be a merger of ashes at that spot, hers, mine, Shanny’s, Shaksper’s and any other dogs we have in our lives before diving into our dirt-naps for eternity. I must confess that I found it rather disturbing to refer to myself in the past tense (dead tense), but this sort of planning is the kind of the decent and thoughtful thing one can do for survivors and loved ones prior to our flight out to wherever (those last words would make a find title for a story).
Most of my friends are now retired. This coming summer will mark the 39th consecutive meeting of the Little L Lake, Baldwin Bullshido Club. This year it appears that we’ll get another shot at salmon. Last time this happened, Reg Bernard and I managed a couple of fish while the rest of the lads gave up and repaired to camp for toddies. The truth is that catching king salmon on the spawn is no great trick, and perhaps it’s not so grand to give them some aerobic exercise so close to their demise, but I have neither the frame of mind, nor the mood for philosophizing such trivial matters this morning. Back to work. Over.
People ask me what I’m reading. Here’s what I’ve gotten through in the first quarter of 2015:
(1) William Sanders. Are We Having Fun Yet? American Indian Fantasy Stories. (2002) [SS
(2) Scott Russell Sanders. Earth Works: Selected Essays. (2012) [ESS
(3) Joseph Heywood. Buckular Dystrophy (2015) [Submission Draft]
(4) Sarah Bakewell. How To Live, or A Life of Montaigne: In One Question and Twenty Attempts At An Answer. (2010) [BIO]
(5) Diane Osen. The Book That Changed My Life: Interviews With National Book Award Winners. (2002) [NF]
(6) Sarah Smith. Chasing Shakespeare. (2003)
(7) Kenn Kaufman. Kingbird Highway. (1997) [NF]
(8) Toshihiko Kobayashi. Insight Track – To Become an Internationally- Minded Person (2014) [NF]
(9) Hector St.John De Crevcoeur. Letters From An American Frontier and Sketches of Eighteenth-Century America. (1782) [NF]
(10) Thomas de Quincey. Confessions of an English Opium-Eater and Other Writings. (1821) [NF]
(11) Jose Saramago. The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis. (1984)
(12) Joseph Heywood. Covered Waters. (2015) [NF-Memoir]
(13) Bryan Stevenson. Just Mercy. (2014) [NF]
(14) Robert Shelton. No Direction Home: The Life and Music of Bob Dylan. (1986/2010) [NF]
(15) David Levering Lewis. God’s Crucible: Islam and the Making of Europe, 570-1215. (2008) [NF]
(16) Martin Walker. The Resistance Man. (2013)
(17) John Straley. Cold Storage, Alaska. (2014)
(18) Troy Soos. Hunting A Detroit Tiger. (1997/2013)
(19) George Craig, Martha Dow Fehsenfield, Dan Gunn, and Lois More Overbeck. The Letters of Samuel Beckett. 1957-1965. (2014) [NF]
(20) William Alexander. Flirting With French: How a Language Charmed Me, Seduced Me & Nearly Broke My Heart. (2014) [NF]
(21) Cheryl Strayed. Wild. (2013) [NF]
(22) Arturo Perez-Reverte. The Siege. (2013)
(23) Robert Harris. The Fear Index. (2012)
(24) Garrett Epps. American Epic. Reading the U.S. Constitution. (2013) [NF]
(25) Harriet Elinor Smith, Ed. Autobiography of Mark Twain. (2010) [NF]
(26) Adam Gopnik. Paris to the Moon. (2000) [NF]
(27) Philip K. Dick. The Man in the High Castle. (1962)
(28) Philip K. Dick. Confessions of a Crap Artist. (1975)
(29) Philip K. Dick. The Game-Players of Titan. (1963)
(30) William Alexander. Flirting With French: How A Language Charmed Me, Seduced Me & Nearly Broke My Heart. (2014) [NF]
(31) Sarah Blakewell. The English Dane: From King of Iceland to Tasmanian Convict: At Life Of Jorgen Jorgenson. (2005) [NF]
(32) Bob Dylan. Chronicles, Vol I (2005) [NF]
(33) Molly Ivins and Lou Dubose. Bushwhacked: Life in George W. Bush’s America. (2003) [NF]
(34) MFK Fisher. How To Cook A Wolf. (1942) [NF]
(35) Donald Barthelme. Sixty Stories. (1981) [SS]
(36) S.E. Gontarski, Ed. Samuel Becket: The Complete Short Prose, 1929-1989. (1995) [NF + SS]
(37) Stanislaus Joyce. My Brother’s Keeper. James Joyce’s Early Years. (1958) [NF]
(38) Laura Hildenbrand. Unbroken. (2010) [NF]
(39) John Darnton, Intro. Writers [on Writing]: Collected Essays from the New York Times. (2001) [NF]
(40) Milan Kundera. The Art of the Novel. (1986) [NF]
(42) Samuel Beckett. More Pricks Than Kicks. (1934/1972) [SS]
(43) C.J. Ackerley and S.E. Gontarski. The Grove Companion to Samuel Beckett:A Reader’s Guide to His Work, Life, and Thoughts. (2004)
(44) Sarah Blakewell. The Smart: The Story of Margaret Caroline Rudd and the Unfortunate Perreau Brothers. (2001) [NF]
(45) Martin Walker. Bruno, CHIEF OF POLICE.(2008)
(46) Martin Walker. The Crowded Grave.(2011)
(47) Jim Harrison. The Boy Who Ran To The Woods. (2000) [Kidlit]
(48) John Gardner. The Art of Fiction. (1981) [NF]
(49) Adam Gopnik. Winter: Five Windows on the Season. (2011) [NF]
(50) Adam Gopnik. Angels and Ages: A Short Book About Darwin, Lincoln, and Modern Life. (2009) [NF]
(51) Emily St.John Mandel. Station Eleven. (2015)
(52) W. Somerset Maugham. A Writer’s Notebook. (1949) [NF]
(53) Phillip Lopate. Against Joie De Vivre: Personal Essays. (1989) [NF]
(54) Alistair Horne. Seven Ages of Paris. (2002) [NF]
(55) Alistair Horne. La Belle France: A Short History. (2004) [NF]
(56) Donald Hall. Life Work. (1993/2003) [NF]
(57) Laurence Stern. The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman. (1978)
(58) Edward Rutherford. The Princes of Ireland: The Dublin Saga (2004)
(59) Flann O’Brien. The Third Policeman. (1967)
(60) Italo Calvino. Marco Valdo or the Seasons in the City. (1963)
(61) Italo Calvino. The Baron in the Trees. (1957)
(62) William H. Gass. Omensetter’s Luck. (1966)
(63) Thomas Pynchon. Inherent Vice. (2009)
(64) Nicholas Carr. The Glass Cage: Automation and Us (2014) [NF]
(65) John Gardner(Foreward by Raymond Carver) On Becoming a Novelist. (1983) [NF]
(66) Robert Coover. The Universal Baseball Association, Inc., J. Henry Waurgh, Prop. (1968)
(67) Donald Hall. Fathers Playing Catch With Sons (Essays on Sport, Mostly Baseball) (1985) [NF]
(68) Edward Dolnick. Down The Great Unknown: John Wesley Powell’s 1869 Journey of Discovery and Tragedy Through the Grand Canyon.(2001) [NF]
(69) Joseph Heywood. Brown Ball. (UNPUBL MS)
(70) Joseph Heywood. Harder Ground. (2025) [SS]
(71) Henry Barbusse. Under Fire. (2010/1916)
(72) Tom Chiarella. Writing Dialogue. (1998) [NF]
(73) Susan G. Wooldridge. Poemcrazy: Freeing Your Life With Words. (1996) [P]
(74) Alastair Fowler. Literary Names: Personal Names in English Literature. (2012) [NF]
(75) Kenneth Burke. A Grammar of Motives. (1945) [NF]
(76) Ray Bradbury. Bradbnry Speaks: Too Soon From the Cavae, Too Far From the Stars. (2005) [NF]
(77) Maurice Merleau-Ponty. Phenomenology of Perception. (Pre-1923) [NF]
(78) David Brooks. Bobos In Paradise: The New Upper Class and How They Got There. (2000) [NF]
(79) Roger Angell. Once More Around the Park: A Baseball Reader. (1991) [NF]
(80) Roger Angell/ Intro by Richard Ford. Game Time: A Baseball Companion. (2003) [NF]
(81) Christopher Hitchens. Hitch 22: A Memoir. (2010) [NF]
(82) Christopher Hitchens. The Portable Athiest: Essential Readings for the Nonbeliver. (2007) [NF[
(83) Mors Kochanski. Bushcraft: Outdoor Skills and Wilderness Survival. (1987) [NF]
(84) Robert Haight. Emergencies and Spinnerfalls. (2002) [P]
(85) Robert Haight. Feeding Wild Birds. (2013) [P]
(86) Robert Hicok. The Clumsy Living. (2007) [P]
(87) Dave Dempsy and Jack Dempsey. Ink Trails: Michigan’s Famous and Forgotten Authors. (2012) [NF]
(88)Patrick Robinson. Slider: A Novel. (2002)
(89) Daniella Martin. Edible: An Adventure Into the World of Eating Insects and the Last Great Hope to Save the Planet. (2014) [NF]
(90) Thomas McGuane. Crow Fair. (2015) [SS]
(91) Stanley Elkin. Van Gogh’s Room At Arles. (1993)
(92) Stanley Elkin. The MacGuffin. (1991)
(93) Stanley Elkin. Cries & Kibitzers, Kibiztzers & Cries. (1965) [SS}
(94) Jim Harrison. The Big Seven: A Faux Mystery. (2015)
(95) Jim Harrison. The Great Leader: A Faux Mystery. (2011)
(96) Laurence Sterne. The Life and Opinions of Tritram Shandy, Gentleman. (1757)
(97) Michel Faber. The Book of Strange New Things. (2014)
(98) Joseph Heywood. Covered Waters: Tempests of a Nomadic Trouter. (2015) [NF]
(99) Juhani Pallasmaa. The Thinking Hand: Existential and Embodied Wisdom in Architecture. (2009) [NF]
(100) Henry Hitchings.The Secret Life of Words: How English Became English. (2008) [NF]
(101) A. Bartlett Giamatti. The Earthly Paradise and the Renaissance Epic. (1966) [NF]
(102) Joseph Heller. Now and Then: From Coney Island to Here. (1998) [NF]
(103) A. Bartlett Giamatti. Take Time for Paradise: Americans and Their Games. (1989) [NF]
(104) A. Bartlett Giamatti. A Great and Glorious Game. (1998) [NF]
(105) George F. Will. Men At Work: The Craft of Baseball. (1990,2010) [NF]
(106) Clive James. Poetry Notebook: Reflections on the Intensity of Language.(2014) [NF]
(107) Nick Hornby. Fever Pitch. (1992) [NF]
(108) Virginia Woolf. A Writer’s Diary: Being Extracts From the Diary of Virginia Woolf.  [NF]
(109) Ann Hood. An Ornithologist’s Guide to Life. (2004) [SS]
(110) Franco Moretti. The Way of The World: The Bildungsroman in European Culture. (1987) [NF]
(111) Kevin Smokler. Bookmark Now; Writing in Unreaderly Times. (2005) [NF]
(112) Jeanette Winterson. Art Objects: Essays on Ecstasy and Effrontery. (1995) [NF-Essays]
(113) P.G. Wodehouse. The Code of the Woosters. (1938)
(114) Thomas Pynchon. Crying of Lot 49. (1965)
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(116) Franco Moretti. Distant Reading. (2013) [NF]
(117) Arthur Koestler. Darkness at Noon. (1940) [NF]
(118) Arthur Koestler. The Sleepwalkers: A History of Man’s Changing Vision of the Universe. (1959) [NF]
(119) David Benioff. City of Thieves. (2008)
(120) Clive James. Cultural Cohesion. (2013) [NF]
(121) John Fortunato. Dark Reservations: A Mystery. (Pre-Pub, 2016)
Germanwings Flight 9525 and its 150 dead: What is there to say? If the copilot drove the Airbus into the mountains with suicidal intent, and that certainly seems to be the case, we’re left with a kind of psychic huffing and puffing over the outcome, and fretting and sweating over how it might have been prevented.
To be honest and blunt and not meaning to be demeaning of people, most air travelers are like to thinking in their secret hearts: Better them than me. Certainly understandable.
Let’s say up front, definitionally, that the copilot amurdered these people. It’s probable that had he survived there could be some off chance of a court verdict of not guilty due to insanity. This may strike some folks as softheaded (certainly it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been accused of that), but it seems to me that the real culprit in all this is our continued, undoubtedly global, lack of understanding or appreciation for mental illnesses. I know at least five people who I’m pretty sure are bipolar and only one of them is under treatment. None of them are likely to kill 150 people in some kind of whacky suicide, but neither should any of them be flying aircraft or in any jobs that control the fate (read life/death) of others, like surgeons or cops or firefighters, etc. Some of them are barely functional by just about any definition.
Why aren’t these people getting treatment? Most of all it boils down to their unwillingness to come to grips with it — out of fear of being labeled and so they stumble along from one self-made crisis to the next, and heaping bad judgments and poor decisions on top of each other. I noticed on the networks the other day the talking heads talking about nut cases this and nut cases that and while I am not the least bit in favor of euphemistic political correctness, I think the pejorative and emotive power of “nut case” ,as it was bandied about, is indicative of what I’m thinking here. The thing is, if any of these folks had a broken leg, they’d no doubt seek treatment (faith healing is not so effective on compound bone fragments sticking through skin –and probably not much good for closed fractures either), but to many of us mental illness is not an illness at all and is mainly a matter of “getting your shit together,” which itself is abject bull.
Walking around with a malfunctioning, deteriorating brain is dangerous to all involved.
Most folks don’t understand what a malfunctioning, uncontrolled, injured brain means, or feels like. Unfortunately, I think I do. Having had several strokes many years ago I can still remember the frustration of being fully conscious, but entirely unable to make my arm or leg move. It actually made me laugh out loud because the whole damn thing was so ludicrous. I’m guessing that psychosis and certain deep degrees of depression have the same disabling effect, in that the victim knows there’s something not working, but they can’t will it to be better again and this only adds to their frustration and probably fear as well.
People with severe mental disorders need to be helped, including helped out of jobs they have no business being in. At the same time, neither do we don’t want a massive cultural psych-testing program launched against all citizens here and/or or elsewhere. Do airline and civil aviation procedures need to be changed? Maybe. That’s for more knowledgeable people to discuss and decide, but can we make rules that will guarantee absolute safety for every air passenger on every flight? Forgetaboutit. Not possible. There will always be risk. This event, tragic as it is, happens rarely so it makes no sense to turn the air industry upside down just to minimize by a negligible amount the risk involved. Two people in cockpit rule? Probably good, but by no means a panacea and there is a lot of anecdotal evidence that US aircrews have not always taken this seriously.
A CO partner and I once dealt with a man who had obvious mental incapacities and little connection to reality, though his ability to talk, even to talk convincingly, were still intact. Yet he was clearly and undeniably off the reservation of the reasonable and ultimately all he could do was look at us, raise his hands in submission, shrug his shoulders, sigh and flash an insipid grin.
Later my partner and I agreed that the man had had his reasons for doing what he did, but those reasons were far from reasonable. Mentally ill people do things for reasons — albeit crazy ones.
Who is to say how we would react if we thought there was another person inside us, fighting for control. As a fiction writer I even have a small sense of this because when I create a character in a sense, I become that character and listen to that creation carry on with its life. The difference between this creative multiple personality thing and medical psychosis, I’m guessing, is that I know what’s happening in my noggin not real and that I retain the switch to turn it off.
My gut says that the day world culture no longer thinks differently of mental illness vs physical illness, we will be a long step closer to not having a repeat of what happened in the southern French Alps.
Oftentimes in moments like this, mere language is inadequate – just as it was with the gentleman the CO and I encountered. All we can do is feel for the victims and the survivors, and be thankful for the courage and determination of first responders who are involved in the recovery mission.
I doubt that even praying to god offers much consolation to anyone in this thing. Mostly this tragedy is a reminder that we are human, life is short, and nothing is guaranteed. It’s just a damn sad and perplexing deal from all angles. As my brother in law Jim Miars likes to say, “Just sayin.'”